“Shall I assign you a personal servant, Lord Lockwood?”
“No servants,” Hunt said. No interference, and no witnesses to his comings and goings.
Daphne smoothed the rich plum silk in her lap. After trying the gown on, she’d only had to take in the seams a fraction beneath her bosom. She’d had the gown remade in Charleston, along with a few others, when she’d gone to visit William at school last year.
And now, with Governor Bascombe’s invitation to a reception honoring a Lord Lockwood tomorrow night sitting on her foyer table, she’d have the perfect opportunity to repay Captain Gilbert for all his thoughtfulness. She’d steal a private moment with the governor, request a patent for the captain to carry official documents and then count her debt to him paid.
The errant notion that she might encounter Mr. Hunt passed through her mind and sped her heartbeat. The mere thought of him was like an opiate—seductive, promising unknown delight, addictive. Dangerous. Every sensible thing in her warned her to stay away from the man. That anything else could bring disaster. That, should he have the faintest suspicion of who she was and what she’d done, all she had worked to build and all she loved would be forfeited.
No, the risk was too great to give in to the temptation that was Mr. Hunt. Nevertheless, and illogically, she twisted the wedding band off her finger, dropped it in her sewing basket and returned to her task.
Taking one final stitch and knotting the thread, Daphne put the gown aside. She arched her back and rolled her head as she stood. Her life since leaving London had been anything but sedentary and now she could not sit for long periods of time. She’d found forgetfulness and peace in hard labor. It was only in the quiet moments that the reality of what she’d become caught up with her.
The faint click of the kitchen door opening drew her attention. Olivia must have come back for something. The housekeeper was always leaving her supper or her mending before going back to the cottage by the gate to her property.
“Olivia?” she called. “What did you forget?”
When there was no answer, an uneasy shiver shot up her spine. “Olivia?” She snatched the scissors from her sewing box and whirled to the back hallway as soft footsteps approached. “I… I have a pistol,” she warned.
“Si, an’ you will use it, too.” A tall Spanish beauty appeared in the doorway. Her long dark hair hung loose to the small of her back and she had the confident look of a woman who knew her own worth. She gave Daphne a saucy grin. “I think you will have to be more ferocious than that if you want to stop someone, querida. If I had been the thief, you would be much the poorer now, eh?”
Daphne exhaled and dropped her scissors. “Why did you not answer me?”
Olivia shrugged. “I wished to see what you would do. I worry about you when I am not here.”
Daphne turned away from her to hide her annoyance. Olivia meant well, but she could often be trying. “I got on quite well before you came along,” she snapped.
“Si?” Olivia laughed and shook her head. “And that is why you are here on St. Claire? Because you ‘got on’ well?”
Daphne had learned almost the same day she arrived on the island that Olivia was a conscienceless busybody. Thank heavens she was discreet. And thank heavens Daphne had been careful to bury her secrets deeply beneath the rain tree behind her house.
“I suspect I am here for the same reason you are, Olivia,” she answered.
Olivia gave a weary shrug. “Men,” she said. “They are the reason for everything, eh? But I came back tonight because I forgot to put the little William’s letter where you could see it. It is in your desk.”
William? She went to the escritoire in one corner of the room. Her spirits lifted and she smiled as she opened the thin little letter and saw the child’s bold writing. “Do you mind if I read it now, Olivia?”
“I will go, querida. Tomorrow, eh?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Daphane sighed, settling into her chair again. She read the words quickly, then went back to savor them a second time.
Her son was doing well. His letter was filled with news about his friends and classes. He’d finished his exams and had been promoted a level. He had grown two inches since last Christmas. The headmaster and his wife had invited him to stay with them over the Christmas holiday again, but he begged to be allowed to come home. He was homesick for her and St. Claire, he wrote, and promised he would be no trouble.
Trouble? That he could even think such a thing cut like a dagger to her heart. Of course he was no trouble, and she would give anything to have him with her every single day. It tore at her very soul to spend so much time apart from him, but the danger of having him where he could be found if she was discovered was too great. Oh, but surely she could risk having him for the Christmas season? A month? Two?
She withdrew a sheet of paper from the escritoire drawer and scribbled a few lines. Words of encouragement and love, and the promise that she would send for him soon. She folded her letter, sealed it and placed it on the foyer table to take with her to town tomorrow. She would post it by packet to a neighboring island, where it would be routed to Charleston—the only way she could be certain her letters wouldn’t be traced.
Music floated on the sultry island breeze. Chandeliers cast a gentle glow through the grand ballroom. Were it not for the smell of salt air stirring the draperies and the humidity, Hunt could well imagine himself at a state dinner at Whitehall. On his left, Governor Bascombe introduced him to yet another island notable while, on his right, the chargé d’affaires, Mr. Doyle, kept the line moving.
Hunt shook the newest arrival’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goode,” he said. “I believe we are neighbors, are we not?”
“Aye, Lord Lockwood. Our lands adjoin to the east. Glad you’ve come. Now you can straighten out that factor of yours.”
“Prichard?” Hunt asked in surprise. “Has he encroached on your land or business?”
“In a manner of speaking. I can’t keep workers. Prichard pays yours too much, so mine keep wandering off to New Albion.”
“Have you tried paying yours more, Mr. Goode?”
The man gave him an incredulous look. “Profits, Lord Lockwood. That would cut my profits.”
“Ah, yes,” Doyle interrupted smoothly. “A man must make a living, mustn’t he? Have you tried the hors d’oeuvres, Mr. Goode? They’re delicious. You’ll find them in the drawing room.”
“Nicely done, Doyle,” Hunt said when Mr. Goode had shuffled off to the drawing room. The chargé was the type of man who had always been popular at school—charming, good-looking and the sort one wanted on one’s cricket team.
The tall, fair, solidly built chargé grinned. “Mr. Goode has a tendency toward confrontation. Easy enough to manage when you see it coming.”
Hunt was about to reply when he caught a flash of shimmering plum from the corner of his eye. He refocused on the captivating creature. Mrs. Hobbs. Bascombe had been wrong. She’d come. Dare he hope she’d come alone? He gave a polite half bow and excused himself.
She had her back to him and he took a moment to admire the curve of her swanlike neck and the set of her shoulders. Her sun-streaked hair, done in an interesting twist at her nape, glowed in the candlelight. He could smell her scent—not vanilla and sugar, as it had been in her shop, but something more tropical. Oleander? No, gardenia. He inhaled deeply before speaking.
“Mrs. Hobbs. I am delighted